


Reflections of a Thessalian

by Miss_M



Category: The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/pseuds/Miss_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have to work to live as long as she has. You have to work <em>hard</em>. The Moon is immortal and unchanging, and can afford to be callous while she waits. Thessaly can only affect such nonchalance. </p><p>The Thessalian witch thinks about history and knowledge, survival and regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections of a Thessalian

**Author's Note:**

> My attempt to write from the POV of my favorite _Sandman_ character. Thessaly fascinates me even though I do not pretend to fully understand her, and I don’t always like her. This fic comes from the idea that maybe – for all the cool self-possession she displays throughout _Sandman_ , _Thessaliad_ and _Thessaly: Witch for Hire_ – she does not fully understand or like herself, either. (Yeah, I think Fetch may have been onto something there.) So this might be wildly OOC depending on your view of Thessaly’s good canon self. I own nothing. 
> 
> Set vaguely after _Witch for Hire_

It is interesting, she reflects, that a creature which has contrived to live as long as she has, and devote its existence to the accumulation of knowledge, should remain ignorant of its purpose. Why has she been hoarding spells and facts, theories and abilities for long millennia? Why does she pose as a graduate student in a string of disciplines, at a succession of universities, for more years than there are beads on one of those cheap necklaces sold at carnival time in certain cities? 

Fewer years by far than the sum total of her life, at any count. 

Fetch thought she was just marking time, making an interminable eternity pass. 

Thessaly sighs. Fetch had some good qualities, but he didn’t know anything about living a very long time. It is not the same thing as immortality (which Thessaly did not have) or being already dead and lingering on, unchanging (which is what Fetch did). 

You have to work to live as long as she has. You have to work _hard_. Dodge and weave and make it seem effortless, to herself if to no one else. For all that she’s a plain-looking little thing, Thessaly appreciates elegance. The Moon is immortal and unchanging, and can afford to be callous while she waits. Thessaly can only affect such nonchalance. 

She _has_ had a long run already, but Thessaly would like more. _Wants_ more. Has found out ways long ago, and picked up others along the way, to stave off the end, to keep the Moon at bay, to borrow more time. Time for another book, another street, another cup of tea, another city, another revolution of this hunk of rock. 

She has watched cities burn. Not Troy or London, Chicago or Rome or anyplace you have heard of. Real places nonetheless. 

She has seen every variety of destruction and creation humans and gods and the things that will outlive them all ( _maybe outlive her, too_ ), that lurk in the hinterland of this world, have wrought. She may have even had a hand in one or two of those cosmic acts, though a lady never tells. It does not do to attract attention to yourself, if you plan to outlive everyone else. 

She’s had her share of bedmates, though she would only call one or two lovers. Maybe just the one. 

She has heard it claimed with great authority by persons who should really know better than to deliver judgments on anything more important than a restaurant meal that life is more important than books. She is fairly certain that she has never felt more alive than when she is reading, finding out about things, storing up knowledge like a squirrel in autumn would store up food. Her mind and flesh thrumming as one. 

Not since the days when she used to wear animal skins and bear grease in her hair, smear her breasts with crushed berries and dance under the Moon without fear. Draw nothing but power and joy from the inner workings of blood and sweat and stone. Replete, round, impenetrably whole. Never counting the cost. Never even thinking of it until she saw her sisters vanish, claimed one by one, and realized she would remain the last one. Alone. 

For a time she convinced herself she was protecting their legacy, a walking effigy of their era, ensuring the world would not forget her sisters. The world forgot anyway. It folded her into itself, and she discovered an undreamed-of capacity to adapt. To survive. 

Sometimes she almost believes she _is_ just marking time. Until what or when? End of the world? There are other worlds. The Moon’s vengeance? The Moon is a hunk of celestial rock, has not been a three-faced goddess to almost anyone else in ages. Thessaly fears and respects her, but no more than she fears and respects any other big, selfish thing that might crush her at any given moment. 

She feels hollow. It has been years ( _centuries_ ) since anything truly filled her up. Not like Fetch had wanted and Morpheus had tried to do. (If she concentrates, she can accept that she only ever believed herself in love with him because he abandoned her, and she created her love for him after the fact, a justification for finding herself in circumstances she could not control. She can handle intangibles and uncertainties; it’s the lack of control she has always found problematic.) 

Once she was the fulcrum of the universe. Now she carries power as easily as she does her books and groceries. 

She knows there is more to learn, see, read, but she also knows her limitations. No sense of humor, in any culture. Little spontaneity. No key to true immortality. She would like to find a purpose she could wrap around herself like a tissue of moonlight that would not melt with the day. Something she could stand on and say: _Here it is. This is me, and this is my place._

(Sometimes she does feel bad about Fetch, though.)


End file.
